Read Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I for Free Online Page B

show.
    Persons old
and young, rich and poor clambered amidst the wreckage to grab what
they could, snatching at more than what they had paid for.
    Weavil
regarded the proceedings with sagacious irony. He clicked his
tongue in wonderment, pondering the cost of duplicity.

 
    IV
     
    In the
meanwhile it was an enervated Baus who trudged up the mudflats. He
had succeeded in evading the two bungling pursuers, but only with
cunning and a degree of subterfuge. In silence he stalked up the
beach, avoiding the viscous mud that made for foot-heavy toil. He
contemplated his misfortunes with rancour. Because of the
unspeakable boorishness of a few oafs, he had suffered abrasions
and indignities and had failed to partake of the free victual at
Heagram’s fair. ‘Twas an insufferable turn!
    Slogging his
way past a tidal pool, Baus bent his mind on extracting a revenge.
The enterprise was not straightforward. Several plans idled in his
mind but wilted in hazy billows. All plans hinged on the fact that
he must sneak up on the vendors unawares, and surprise them with a
nasty twist, an unlikely event.
    Limbs
creaking, Baus arrived at the seaweed tract where his fair-going
had begun. The wind had picked up and grey ominous clouds had
marched to plague Heagram’s coastline. Nillard was nowhere to be
seen: only a pile of ropy fishing nets, tangled with seaweed.
    Baus frowned
with disapproval. Where was Harky? The shoremaster was usually
nosing his way around, skulking, barking rebukes and complaints at
everyone around him.
    Baus stumped
away to a steeper, sandier portion of the beach. Here he was well
out of range of the galling stench and there he set himself down to
a proper snooze.
    An hour later
he was woken by a rude kick in the ribs that sent him tumbling down
the shore . . .
     
    * * *
     
    It was a
tetchy Baus who was guzzling grog at the Portman’s pub alongside
the Heagram docks in the early hours of evening. He had changed
into warmer wear—a pair of cotton-grey breeches, a russet woollen
overcoat. With brooding displeasure, he flung down his perogi and
applied himself to sombre thought. Harky and he had shared bitter
words and blows—ones costing him his post. Ah, what of it? The
world was a wide place for all who applied themselves . . . at
least, so he tried to convince himself over his tepid brew.
    Weavil had
arrived, helping Baus deal with his gloom. The two traded stories
over mugs of ale. Baus eventually loosed a chuckle when his friend
told him how he had second-bested the magician.
    “I wish I’d
been there to see the look on that glibster’s face,” growled Baus.
“Instead, I was dodging those two lummoxes from Hilgimi. What a
farce!”
    “I rather
doubt we’ll be hearing much of Nuzbek too soon, or his
pontificating.”
    “Why’s
that?”
    “He is in no
condition to lift a magic finger at all—at least the last time I
looked.” He gave Baus a sly glance. “What of your new friends, Iyuk
and Gigor—those bumbling vendors?”
    Baus flicked a
glance out the window. “I shall deal with them on the morrow.”
    “Let us drink
to that.”
    Baus lifted
his cup, feeling the worse for wear. He explained, slurring his
words, “I am melancholy, true, but a toast—yes! . . . to who, or
what? We have exhausted our supply of subjects.”
    Weavil chided
his friend. “There is always a cause.”
    “You would
know. Let us drink to that—to days and better health.”
    “To continuous
flows of grog!”
    The two
clinked glasses.
     
    * * *
     
    Closer to
midnight, the two cronies found themselves doddering about the
fairgrounds like a pair of clucking hens. They had imbibed more ale
than perhaps was prudent. The air was dank and smells of sea chill
and rockgobbler drifted to their nostrils. The absence of
comforting light was not reassuring, for a fog hugged their heels
like a hound’s wet muzzle. The restless energy of the night flitted
in and around them like waves from across the harbour. The forlorn
croak of the